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“No,” he repeats, stopping in the middle of the room to look at me. “I won’t stand by and watch you choose to die.”
“I’m not choosing this,” I say, tears filling my eyes.
“But you are. You can get the treatment. You can have more time. You can have a future.”
“What future? One where I’m too sick and too weak to function before I die anyway? There is no future for me, Abel. Not anymore.”
“That’s bullshit!” His voice echoes off the walls around me and I immediately draw back in surprise. In all the weeks we’ve spent together he’s never so much as raised his voice, let alone yelled. “You’re giving up.” He points a finger at me, anger the one emotion on his face I can read clearly.
“What part of this is me giving up? I’m dying. What don’t you understand about that?”
“You are not dying!” he screams again.
“Yes I am!” I push myself further upright, my tone matching his. “You were here. You heard what the doctor said.”
“I heard the doctor say you could try chemo,” he interrupts.
“To buy me time. Not to cure me,” I say, wondering if this whole time he’s just been hearing what he wants to hear and not actually accepting what they’ve been saying.
“You’re getting chemotherapy. You’re going to fight this. Or you’re going to die without me.” His voice is eerily calm as he stands facing me, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
“Are you saying you’ll leave me if I don’t get chemo?” I question, my heart beating so hard and fast it’s a wonder it hasn’t worn a hole in my chest at this point.
“I’m saying I won’t sit around and watch you die.”
“Well then you better leave now because I hate to break it to you, I’m dying, whether you like it or not.”
“Is that what you want? You want me to leave?” His nostrils flare.
“I want you to accept the decision I’ve made when it comes tomylife.”
“It’s not justyourlife anymore.” He throws his hands up in the air.
“Maybe not, but I’m the one dying!” My temper flairs and emotion swells in my chest.
“You have to get the chemo, Finley. You have to.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, trying to calm himself. “I won’t watch you die.”
“Then leave.”
“Is that what you want?” He draws back like I’ve physically slapped him.
“Of course it isn’t. But I’m dying. If you don’t want to stick around to watch, then leave,” I grind out, my tears breaking free and moving in quick succession down my cheeks.
“You want me to leave. If you didn’t you wouldn’t be refusing treatment. Is this your way of pushing me away?”
“I’m not pushing you away. I want you to support my decision.”
“I can’t support your choice to die.”
“You think Iwantto die?” My tears flow harder. “You think this is what I want?” I sob.
“Finley.” He takes a step toward me but I hold up a hand to stop him from coming any closer.
“You know what, you should leave.”
“Finley,” he starts again.
“I said leave!” I scream, all of the emotion I’ve been holding in for the past five days boiling to the surface.
